Budapest
by Lou Ismay
Summary: Years after, he'll tell her, "You and I remember it differently."


His hands were a blur as he fired arrow after arrow with an unbelievable accuracy. He wasn't really looking where he fired—in the many years that Clint Barton had been an archer, he'd learnt to blur his vision.

_This is ironic_, he thought. People called him Hawkeye because of his impeccable aim, but the truth was that his vision was never as clear as he always claimed. He'd learnt a technique that worked well for him. Blurring his vision a bit meant that he saw whole targets instead of eyes, noses, torsos, or legs. It meant he saw blocks of colour that were easier to aim at.

A sudden "Shit—," quickly followed by "Barton!" shattered his reverie. He spared a second to glance to his right, where Natasha was.

_Where Natasha_ _had_ been, he corrected himself. His eyes widened as he realised what had happened. Suddenly, it seemed as if time slowed down to a crawl with an unbearable pace.

Everything came crystal clear. He saw every grain of sand and rubble spanning the distance between them. He saw every bead of sweat on her pale face. He saw the strands of hair falling haphazardly over her eyes.

"Tash?" Clint tried to call out, but it came out as little more than a whimper.

Everything around him slowed down. Moving proved to be like swimming in syrup. He made his way to the collapsing body of his colleague—no, his friend—they were friends now, he reminded himself. Natasha hit the ground and something inside him broke.

* * *

"I hate this place," he muttered, cradling his head in his hands. His chest tightened as he struggled to breathe. He choked out incoherent words as he forced himself to breathe properly.

Natasha was at a small hospital down the street. _I hate this, I hate this, I fucking hate this_, he thought. He was by himself, stuck in a cheap motel. It had been three days. He had exhausted the infirmary's visiting hours every single day, and had no plan to stop.

Last he checked, she was still unconscious and it was absolutely killing him. The doctors told him that she was on the slow path to recovery. He didn't even know what had happened, really—only that she had been shot in four different places.

He blamed himself completely. It was he who had propositioned Natasha to come along with him, all those months ago. She had leapt at the chance to do something, of course. After all, when he'd visited her, she had been idly shadowboxing in front of Muhammad Ali on her television. The reason he'd wanted her on the mission was because he had feared that this job would be too much for him—he was utterly right, of course. He realised that now.

He realised that he had put too much at stake. He hadn't accounted for the possible outcomes. It had always been only him on these jobs, and the worst case scenario was that he could lose his life. He was confident in himself, of course.

But adding Natasha into the equation had resulted in another outcome he had not foreseen—and outcome that, he had to admit, absolutely terrified him. He had never been responsible for another person's life before. He was used to working alone.

_I'm so stupid. I'm a fucking idiot!_, he thought, his head still in his hands. He had not moved an inch since coming home from the hospital and sitting at the edge of his bed. He gulped in air and held it in, his chest wanting to cave in.

"I fucking hate this place," he muttered.

* * *

The nightmares were the most difficult part. The first few nights he spent at that stupid run-down motel were absolutely terrible. Clint was glad that no one else was staying at the motel. Waking up screaming, sweating, and breathless quickly became a routine. Struggling to breathe came next, and then he wouldn't be able to sleep again.

Always running. He was always running in the nightmares. Running from the screams of everyone he was ever sent after. Running from every gun he used, from every arrow he fired. Running from every case of cash that was presented to him in exchange of a life. Running from flowing hair that was red with the blood of the people he had killed.

On the fifth night, he opted to stay up, staring blankly at the television screen. On the next, he brewed coffee and finished the whole pot. He stayed up until dawn and went up to the roof to watch the sunrise.

On the seventh night, he discovered a 24-hour gym on the next street. He went inside and registered.

"It is pretty late for work-out, is it not?" she asked in English that was tainted with the local accent. She looked to be in her early twenties

"Well—I'm tired. This is what I do when I'm tired," he replied with a straight face. It was his habit, after all. Exhausting himself so he would collapse, and go straight into a fatigued slumber. To forget the pain. To run away, even for a few hours.

He went to that gym every night since, tiring himself out completely in exchange for three and a half short hours of restless sleep.

* * *

Sitting next to her bed came a close second. He stayed there for eight hours a day, from ten in the morning to six in the evening. He sat on the lone loveseat in the room, keeping the television on for background noise. Clint only went out for lunch, bringing it back to her room to eat.

He stayed every day, watching her, seeing her chest rise and fall with her barely audible breath. He stayed with her every minute allowable, keeping her limp figure company. He stayed even when the doctor made his rounds every two hours, checking on her condition.

Sometimes he would talk to her—speak softly. Tell her things. Tell her about his life. Not that he expected her to answer in her sleep, of course, but it was reassuring.

He told her about his family and where he grew up. He told her how he was the only one among his siblings who picked up a bow and arrow when they all excelled in team sports. He told her the story of how he got sucked into the Japanese Mafia when he first ran jobs in Japan.

He told her that it was a good thing he had gotten his life back on track—that he was thankful he had the privilege to choose the jobs he would take. He told her how meeting her again two years ago in a bar brawl was one of the best times he'd had.

He told her about how he'd never opened himself up to anyone before, not like this. He told her that she probably couldn't hear him speak, anyway, but that it didn't matter because it helped him. He thanked her for helping him become a better person.

Clint caught up on rest eventually, falling asleep in the loveseat in the afternoons, after expiring his thoughts on a quiet Natasha. He would fall asleep looking at her face and her hair. He always did love her hair. There, his dreams were less troubled, but still, he ran. Clint was an expert at running away.

* * *

Thirteen days after she got shot was when she woke up. He was already there, sitting on the chair beside her bed. To Clint, she looked different somehow—almost like she was on the verge of shattering—and it absolutely scared him. He couldn't fathom the consequences of her blood on his hands.

She opened her stunning green eyes and stared at the ceiling, trying to make sense of where she was. Clint smiled a little. She was always the warrior. Always practical and calculated.

"Hey, Tash," he whispered.

Her eyes instantly shot to his direction. For a moment, he thought she would react violently—that she would aim a punch at him—but it passed. Her eyes softened and a tear made its way down her cheek.

"Barton," her eyes shone and the corners of her mouth pulled up slightly. "What day is it?"

"Does it really matter?" he sighed. "You were shot four times in four different places, Tash. Shut up for a second."

"You can talk, Barton. How long have I been out?" she asked.

"You really want to know?" he looked straight at her. He had once learnt to never lie to her, even if it had been for her own good. That experience had ended with several bruised ribs and a split lip.

"Yes," she said quietly, and broke his gaze. Natasha looked down at her left hand, which was hooked up to an IV drip. Her gaze hardened. "Tell me now."

"Thirteen days, Tash. Three hundred and twenty hours," he muttered.

"Shut up, Barton. Stop being dramatic. I was shot. I'm fine," she looked out the window.

"Yeah, you were shot _four fucking times_, Natasha!" he yelled at her as something inside him snapped. He wanted to reach over and strangle her. Strangle her for the all the sleepless nights and all the pain she'd caused him.

_How the hell could she be so damn calm about this?_

"Do you know how many people get shot once and _die_? Most people, apparently," he got up from his chair, knocking it down. "Do you know that a bullet was lodged next to your heart?"

"Do you know what I've been doing for the past thirteen days? Watching you lie there—not knowing if you were going to _live_ or not!"

She didn't flinch; she never did. She stared him down like it was the most normal thing; she looked at him like Clint had hidden the remote controller of her television and she was figuring out where he had hidden it. His breathing quickened as that all too familiar feeling returned. His chest tightened and his eyebrows twisted.

"Do you know how horrible that feels?" he whispered.

Still she stared at him. Green on blue.

"No, I don't."

He stormed out the room.

* * *

Two days after, she was released from the hospital. His superiors had sent a Hummer to pick them up. The job had been accomplished, after all.

They sat beside each other in the backseat, both masters of their respective trade. Natasha was back in her leather catsuit and Clint wore a matching leather jacket. He had on a pair of boots, though. Natasha had always teased him about that—he refused to wear anything else.

It was starting to feel like old times again.

"Thanks for not bailing on me, Barton," she spoke, not looking at him. She say daintily, with a grace that exuded danger.

"It was nothing," he replied, clearing his throat. _Is this going anywhere?_, he thought to himself. He was unsure of so many things and the fifteen nights he spent thinking about it didn't help one bit.

"I'm serious. I know what it feels like to be left alone, especially when you're helpless and weak," she confessed quietly. "I swore to myself that I'd never be helpless again."

"I'm sorry for shouting at you. I was—"

"I know."

He didn't know more what to say, so he cleared his throat. Natasha had rarely shared personal things with him before. He was pretty certain he could count the instances using his right hand.

"It won't happen again. I miscalculated," she muttered. Her voice broke. "I'm sorry for burdening you."

Still, he didn't know what to say. He clenched and unclenched his hands in frustration. He wanted desperately to comfort her, but words always failed him at times like this. It was she who was the wordsmith.

_Besides_, he thought, _I've said enough in those fifteen days. Half a month worth of being vulnerable and bringing down my walls—not that she knew, of course._

A pale hand grabbed his, her fingers settling in in between his own. Neither of them spoke, but Clint broke his stern staring contest with the back of the passenger seat. He looked at Natasha. Natasha Romanoff, the esteemed Russian spy. Natasha, his colleague, his partner, and recently, his friend. Her red hair shone in the tinted sunlight, and her piercing green eyes made their way to hold his gaze.

"We're going home, Clint," she smiled. "You're fine; I'm getting better. Everything's going to be fine."

_I should be the one reassuring her_, he thought viciously. _She's the one all broken like she won't be whole again._

She still looked so fragile. There were bandages covering stitches holding together scars healing from bullet wounds. He knew, though none of them were visible under her outfit. He had been there when the doctor patched her up the other day, though she was still unconscious. He'd had to look away when he fixed the wound on her upper thigh, out of respect.

"I know, Tash," he muttered.

_Why am I the one feeling insecure and nervous?_

She gripped his hand harder, pushing their palms together. Her fingernails dug into his skin and he sighed. He broke her gaze and looked at their entwined fingers.

He realised that inviting her on this job was the worst decision he could ever have made. Endangering her life brought about a new emotion he thought he'd buried long before—guilt. He could never live with losing her. Even those fifteen days of waiting and watching and nervously struggling to breathe normally, he was wracked with guilt. He had absolutely no idea what he would have done if Tash hadn't—

Well, he tried not to think about that.

"C'mon then," she squeezed his hand as the vehicle rolled to a halt. "Let's get out of Budapest."


End file.
